Our lips hover over each other, the pull so strong they’re made of magnets.
“Ricky, I lo—”
I kiss him before he can say it.
It’s tender and soft, his lips fitting with mine so perfectly that I don’t know how I lived without kissing him for so long.
It’s like breath after being trapped underwater.
Every ounce of fear and trepidation and uncertainty that’s been twisting me up every single day of this last year, wondering whether I made the right decision to leave Fielder, vanishes.
My lungs deflate into him, our bodies fusing.
He whimpers, a desperate sigh of relief and passion, and pulls me toward him with great force, and we devour each other.
I don’t care about the grotto or the tour guide or the hunger of the sea; all I want is Fielder, so much so that I fight to hold back tears.
He releases my lips, and I search for his in the dark.
“Fielder?” I open my eyes.
He’s staring at me, smiling like a goof. “Making sure you’re real.”
I grab his face and hold it gently in my hands. His eyes flutter as he leans his cheeks into the roughness of my palms.
“Piccioncini!” the tour guide exclaims.
“What’d he call us?” Fielder whispers.
“I think it means ‘lovebirds,’ ” I say.
The tour guide nods, then says, “For you.” He launches into a rousing edition of “Bella Notte,” singing in an operatic voice so loud it echoes off the rock walls and rebounds. Though it feels strangely American singing an old Disney song, other tour guides on different boats don’t hesitate to follow suit, and suddenly the cave is booming in song. It’s like they’re singing for us.
We hoist each other upright to get a better view, and thebright blue glow radiating from below us is nothing short of magic.
A scene from a Disney movie brought to life.
Fit for a prince and his craftsman.
The gentle rocking of the boat lulls us deeper into our own fairy tale.
“This is incredible,” Fielder says, panning the camera around the grotto, getting every angle, until he lands on me. “And so isthis.” He places a hand on my knee and squeezes as “Bella Notte” swells to a climax.
“I don’t want to leave,” I blurt after the song dies.
The hand holding Fielder’s phone falls gently into his lap. “Ricky, I have to tell you something that I’ve been wanting to ever since we landed, and I’m afraid that I won’t once we’re out of this cave because life is messy and this is messy and I’m a freaking mess, but I have to say it. I love you, Ricky DeLuca.”
Like a reflex, the phrase I always said in response to Fielder leaves my lips. “More than you know.”
His upper lip twitches.
I lean forward and peck it softly.
When I pull back, his eyes are cloudy.
That’s when it hits me. The last time he told me he loved me, I didn’t say it back, and my stomach drops as the boat dips into the bowel of a wave surge. He moves beside me and rests his head on my shoulder, weaving his fingers in between mine.
I open my mouth, but the words never come out.
